La Resistance
by Alegria
Summary: Les Amis de l'ABC reimagined in the time of WWII and the French Resistance. main character: Jehan.


La Résistance  
  
Not to worry, he tells us. With the blitzkrieg gnashing its iron teeth outside our door, he tells us not to worry. I believed him. I was a fool, an idiot to believe that we could withstand the blows to the walls of our country. I was wrong, and he was wrong, and now we're all so very wrong and twisted in this tangled web of hopelessness and pain. Back before France fell, back before the war, we were so happy, the happiest. Life was school and good wine. Life was worth living. Life was meant to be lived. Then the shots were fired and Czechoslovakia and Poland were in the arms of a mother who wanted only to drink their blood. Some of us went to war, but that didn't last long. Our country, our Patria, our tricolor beauty was inflamed and fallen. There was nothing left to do, in my opinion, but wait and hope that you wouldn't be sent to a camp...or worse. Yet our group-appointed leader, Enjolras, had plans. Other plans.  
  
These plans gave us bittersweet hope, at first. I was hopeful and optimistic then, a starry eyed poet who didn't know the meaning of the end, of death. I didn't know how cruel a man could be to another. I didn't know Auschwitz.  
  
1943  
  
I saw the piece of red ribbon tied to the lamp post by the Cafe Musain. That was the signal that there was to be a secret meeting in the back room. The back room wasn't exactly a back room; it was more of a cellar. The stairs leading down to it were cleverly concealed beneath the floor boards. A large rug covered the boards and a large dog, a rottweiller and pitt bull mix, laid on top of this. So even if the Gestapo sent their dogs in, they would have to get around this mutt, Evete, to even get a breeze of our seclusion. Below, in the cellar, there was a long table with various chairs in various degrees of decay surrounding it. But these were never seen, and may still be there today, I don't know.  
  
I remember when I first joined Enjolras' little group. It was Combeferre's fault, but it was mine as well. He persuaded me to join to protect our lives and those of others. I was too idealistic and thought the fate of me, and of my religion, could be saved by petty sabotage. I remember Enjolras' test of whether you were strong enough to join the Resistance. He quietly came up to me after Combeferre introduced us, and pointed out a man the same age as me in the corner. He was looking nervously around and his pallor was rather pale.  
  
"That man is a traitor. He is turning information over to the Gestapo; he plans to ruin our plans to destroy the ammunition supplies tomorrow night. If he is not stopped we will all be killed and the Germans will crush us once more. Will you stop him? Jean Prouvaire, will you kill this turncoat?" Enjolras said to me, his icy blue eyes holding my own weak gaze. He held out a pistol and I took it numbly. What else could I do? If I did not kill this traitor, I would likely be killed by Enjolras. And I would lose Combeferre's trust, the only true friend I had.  
  
I followed the nervous man home, staying hidden in the shadows. He would cough now and then and shiver against the wind. I followed him along the Seine, making gentle my steps on the cobblestones and always with my finger on the trigger of the pistol, feeling its blood lust with in me.  
  
The supposed traitor turned into an alley and I followed. However, when I looked around, he was not there. I stepped slowly back, trembling, my heart pounding a sickening beat of fear. I felt like running away. I could not kill someone. I made myself walk forward and suddenly I heard a voice behind, nearly as frightened as mine.  
  
"Why are you following me? Who are you? I...can defend myself you know," his voice cracked and terror lit up his eyes.  
  
I didn't think twice and I pointed the gun at him. I felt the click of the trigger, but no resounding shot. I stared at it a moment and dropped it to the ground. The man laughed, easily now.  
  
"You really were going to shoot me, yes? Don't worry, I pulled the trigger too. We all do. It's Enjolras' way of testing our character, making sure we're strong enough," he said happily and shook my limp hand. "I'm Jolllly. Four l's in my name, crazy yes? You'll have to excuse me, I have a terrible cold and this wind does me no good. And you are a friend? What's your name? Who is our new hero?"  
  
"Jean Prouvaire. Or just Jehan. Four l's? That makes a wing, you could fly away on your name," I said and watched him giddily move around. I really thought he could fly. It was probably the near-death experience that was getting to him. I was about to ask him if everyone had to do this to get in, when I heard someone pick up the gun from the pavement. I turned to see Enjolras, his golden hair shining as a halo, as one who would not know how to handle a weapon of death. It was ironic how it fit him.  
  
"Congratulations, mon ami. I hope you know what you are getting into. But Combeferre said you were a loyal and trustworthy friend, and I take his word," he said smoothly while polishing the gun with his coat. His eyes had melted slightly and seemed more melancholy. "Would you like to keep this? You never know...although we never choose death over life. Whoever you kill is your brother, yourself. Remember that and remember responsibility." He handed me the gun and I took it reluctantly. I would only use it once. Enjolras disappeared into the night from whence he had come; Joly chattered on as he walked with me back to the apartment I was sharing with Combeferre. He said he lived nearby, very near. In a nice little apartment with another person, who I would meet later, and it was quite inexpensive for where it was, and relatively safe from suspicious persons, and he had a cat, and I could come by anytime I liked...I think I knew more about his apartment than my own.  
  
When I had finally left Joly and went up the apartment I found Combeferre staring blankly at the wall, his cigarette ashes falling on the carpet, the same carpet that if I spilled ink on it he would point it out and mention it for weeks.  
  
"What did you have to do, Ferre?" I asked carefully, sitting on the couch.  
  
"It doesn't matter," he whispered, snapping out of his trance and putting out the cigarette. "I am afraid I have gotten you into something that may not end well, Jehan. I don't want you to get hurt, but we have to do something." His voice rose and I saw the anger and resentment in his eyes. His family had fled the country before it was occupied, he felt they were safer that way, but he also secretly hated their cowardice. He hated the pusillanimous attitude of the French government, the British, the Americans; the fascist leaders infuriated him even more.  
  
I tried to calm him down before he got too upset; although normally insouciant in emotions he could get into a roller coaster type mood, turning from rage to despair in a matter of minutes. "Roosevelt it pushing to move to war...and the Germans are weakening in Russia..."  
  
"They will only come when the whole sewer is rolling with blood and they will only fall back when the only damn person left alive is the demagogue himself," he said angrily and threw the ashtray against the wall. It shattered loudly and threw crystal shards across the night outside the window. The smoldering ashes lay in a pile on the floor, turning the blue carpet to black. He hurriedly got up and left the room, but not before he could hide the building tears in his eyes.  
  
The next morning I didn't mention it, and neither did he. The glass lay around the room a long time before anyone cleaned it up. It was easier to ignore it, as we sometimes had to ignore the friends who were suddenly missing, the shops that were suddenly closed. It kept our sanity.  
  
We started going regularly to all the meetings and watching for red ribbons on lamp posts, three apples in a vacant store's window, and other such signals. There were not many people in Enjolras' group, but they represented what seemed like the entire country. There was Lesgle, the one whom Joly mentioned lived with him. He shaved his head and liked to play chess. His favorite subject to mention was anything besides the war: birds, rivers, Brazil, and the like. I never found out what happened to him.  
  
Then, there was Feuilly. His parents were murdered when he was only four, leaving only a long scar across his face in remembrance. Ever since then he lived in the poorest neighborhood, working the worst jobs. He broke bones more than once on factory machines and was most likely always in pain, though he tried not to show it and we tried to pretend it wasn't there.  
  
Courfeyrac slept with everyone, men and women, maybe more than that. I once saw him kissing Enjolras in the dark by Notre-Dame; I think that was the source of much of our problems.  
  
The one who was a reminder of what the war had already done, that was Grantaire. His brothers had been killed fighting Germany, his parents who were living in Poland were murdered for being Gypsies, and he was left alone with their voices in his ears. Always, he would be drinking from one or two wine bottles, attempting to make comic remarks in order to underscore his pain. It hated to watch it.  
  
Another was Bahorel, an immigrant who had a hobby of taking down propaganda posters and mocking the Gestapo. He played a dangerous game.  
  
There were others, but there is only one more I must mention: Simone. She was obsessed with Enjolras and would constantly approach him, offering herself. Each time he would whisper some fierce words and give a threatening glare, but always she would try again. She would kill us all.  
  
For about a year we pulled off various acts of resistance to the totalitarian rule. There were some simple and childish pranks: putting holes in Nazi boats, stealing their wine, taking the tires off their patrol cars. But, there was also the more serious and life-threatening deeds such as the blowing up bridges, helping Allies and Jews to escape, intercepting messages for the Special Operations Executive, and the murdering of traitors or fascists. I helped create a sort of counter-propaganda, since I loved to write poetry and various forms of nonfiction and fiction. The killing was mostly carried out by Enjolras and Bahorel. They would follow some poor soul home and press the cold muzzle of a gun against their unsuspecting head or the warm blade of a knife by their neck.  
  
Bahorel was cruel and would play guessing games with them. "Why am I going to kill you? Why my friend? What have you done? Don't you know? Or have you done too many things to remember? Well? What do you think?" He would whisper in their ear, laughing in a maniacal tone, until he decided the cut their throat with his dagger. Enjolras would ask his victims to turn around and he would give them some biblical verse or poem to ponder in their head. Then he would shoot them before they had time to think about what was about to happen.  
  
The rest of us just let them go, and hoped no one we knew would end up on the kill-list. This happened to me once. Angeline, the girlfriend I had had for almost two years, had a friend called Arnaud. He sometimes asked me about our meetings, which made me slightly uncomfortable, especially since he wasn't even supposed to know about those. I would see the blackmailing scheme forming in his eyes and he would smile sinisterly. It was obvious he was a spy, but I didn't want to hurt Angeline. She had known him since she was a child in Bordeaux; she trusted him. How could I break another's trust? Combeferre is the one who turned him in to Enjolras. He never told me he did, but I knew. Angeline never knew, I'll never tell her.  
  
One night, at the Cafe Musain, I was playing cards with a few people when Simone came in. You remember her? The girl who was obsessed with Enjolras? Nothing had changed, and she still received his wrath whenever she approached, and he still was more or less with Courfeyrac, I really don't know about that. I just know that Courfeyrac is the only one who ever touched Enjolras. But that doesn't matter.  
  
When she came in, she looked so determined and lustful, I and everyone else in that room felt a sense of terrible dread. Enjolras was in the corner, reading some papers. He didn't look up or acknowledge her.  
  
"I'll give you one more chance, Enjolras. Then, then you'll see what happens when you betray me. Then you'll see what will happen to you and that man, that slut. I'll butcher you all in the name of Fate and God. Then you'll see," she said, her voice a hot iron. "What's your choice? I can give or take your life, you know I can. I can ruin everything you've ever loved."  
  
Enjolras sighed and folded the paper carefully. "Go away. You already know my decision, otherwise you wouldn't have already made yours."  
  
"No! It can change. We can escape. I have a plan. Just leave the rest of them to the camps."  
  
"Nothing will change," he whispered and left the room. Simone began to laugh and scream her rhetoric. After she ran out of words she looked at us, smiling slowly. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. You'll be burned and buried in the crust," she laughed and left the room. Our card game had stopped some time ago, and we all just stared at the table.  
  
"What do you think she did? Do you think she told someone about our sabotage?" Joly looked nervously at us, desperate for an answer.  
  
"It doesn't matter. Someone would have told or found our sooner or later," Combeferre said. "I'm sorry," he whispered to me.  
  
Two days later, a red ribbon showed up and I went to the meeting with a mind full of apprehension.  
  
I remember the night before. I was in the apartment, and Angeline was there. I was telling her about what had happened with Enjolras, she was running her pale hands through my dark hair. I remember her eyes: green and tired.  
  
"Please don't go Jehan. I'm afraid...I'm afraid she might mean it," she said. "What can I do without you? At least let me come, so if you die I can die with you." She sounded desperate; I wanted to cry.  
  
"No, please, stay here. If anything happens, I'll let you know where I am going, somehow. I'll see you again someday, I promise."  
  
That night at the conclave, there was a weird mood. Everyone was uneasy and nervous. I don't remember what happened before they came, if anything happened.  
  
We didn't go down into the cellar, we didn't think it was worth the trouble, Simone could tell them exactly where to find us. The door was flung open and men in shiny boots swept into the room. They shot Joly, who tried to escape. He lay motionless in a crimson sea; I wondered if that's how he would have been if I had shot him; I wondered if I would have felt the same anguish. Then, they herded us outside; it seemed so bright for nighttime. A car was waiting, dark with barred windows. I saw Simone, off in the distance, but not so far as to not see us. She was a statue.  
  
We started to get into the car, one at a time, like a cattle truck going to the slaughter house. Enjolras could not be swayed by any of the S. S. men's guns nor their harsh threats. He started to walk, back to the Cafe; the guns clicked and were level. He spread out his arms and lowered his head. A volley of metal flew out of the dragons' mouths and he fell back against the wall, as if invisible nails pinned him there. Simone laughed and cried in a mixed hysteria, and ran over towards his dead body. But she didn't make it there. Courfeyrac pulled a gun from his coat and shot her once in the stomach, and then he was shot in the head. In no more than ten minutes four people were dead, four people...I thought that was a lot at the time. I thought that was a lot....I thought... They took us away. Some of us were killed, some of us died. We went to various torturous camps, each worse than the next. I ended up alone at Auschwitz. Alone. I no not where my friends went, it matters not how I came there. It matters that I survived. I saw piles of corpses, piles of clothes, piles of rings...Our lives were mixed up in these jumbled piles. I remember too much about this. I remember the lines, the smoke, the gas. I remember wanting to die, wanting to escape. I don't want to tell you about it. I don't want anyone to know what I saw. I don't want you to think about it. I don't want it! Please! Please...  
  
When they liberated the camps, my life in my soul and heart was nearly gone. I no longer wrote romantic poetry about grassy fields and love. I didn't even think about that, I didn't remember I ever had. My mind was an ocean of blood and empty faces.  
  
I found Angeline, or she found me, and I married her. When they took us, I had dropped an envelope by the door; it was a good-bye letter to her. I told her I was either going to die or go to the death camps, she had gotten that letter and hoped that the latter had happened, and she waited for me. She had escaped to London. I was happy, for once, I was happy about something. She took me in her arms and cried, probably because she could feel everything bone in my body. We moved to Canada and tried to start a new life. It worked, in a way. I could go for days without remembering. But after that I would break down and either scream or cry.  
  
I used Enjolras' gun, for the first time, when I found it my old apartment. It was hidden in the walls and no one had found it during those years. I fired it, to see if it still worked. Then I gave it to a museum so I would never have to see it again.  
  
I went back, just to try to find out what happened. Feuilly had survived, he was living in England, I still keep in touch with him. He has a job where he is not a slave, for once he has dignity. Unfortunately, he was the only one alive. I found the others either dead, or I didn't find them at all.  
  
I remember Combeferre's grave.  
  
Etched in a cold stone rock; a name. Was that all he had been?  
  
He had died in the gas chambers.  
  
One of thousands.  
  
I miss him.  
  
1986 


End file.
